


superman (dumb fucking magnets)

by ArtsyAfrodite



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Break Up, Broken Mickey, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, Gallavich, Gen, M/M, Multi, Near Future, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Sad Mickey, post 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:01:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3829729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yeah, Ian wants to be just like him.  At least he’ll stick to something, point his arms towards anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	superman (dumb fucking magnets)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long time since I've written for these two. I mean, months. I almost refused to, but then I decided the only way to get over the mess that was the 5x12 breakup was to write after and through it. I still don't know what this is, but I hope you enjoy!

“What’s eatin’ you, huh?”

Ian looks up from staring into his glass of water to acknowledge a concerned Fiona.  There’s four pills lined up behind the glass.  He told himself maybe if he obscured them, they would somehow seem like less of a hassle, but the water only magnifies them, makes them bigger than _life_.  He’s not surprised Fiona wears a worried crease between her brows.  He was sitting at the kitchen table when she left for the supermarket an hour ago, looking at the same glass of water, the same pills – the same illness.  He still can’t take them, even after crying himself to.  He blinks, his eyes red-rimmed and spent.

He clears his throat.  “I broke up with Mickey earlier today,” he finally responds.

“What?” she answers shocked.  “You didn’t tell me that.”

“That’s cuz I was too busy letting him get shot at.  Letting him get away.”

Fiona lowers herself slowly into the chair across from Ian, runs her hands through her wavy hair.  “Jesus, are you ok?  What happened?”

“I happened,” Ian responds as he stares back down into his glass.  “And what is okay for me anymore?  I decided I don’t wanna take the meds.  I can’t Fi.  And because I can’t take the meds I told myself I can’t be with Mickey.”  He pushes the glass of water to the side, exposing the pills.  They’re small and unassuming again.  “But when I went upstairs to my empty bed, I realized what I did.  I told myself that maybe I could take them, work on making things right.”

“Taking your meds is the right thing Ian,” Fiona responds wearing her guardian hat, “but if you take them, take them for you.”

Ian looks up slowly until his eyes are level with his sister’s.  He wants to laugh in her face.  Just a few days ago, her words made him seem like he had to, and not for himself but for their own peace of mind.  His irises seem to shatter as a sadness breaks the glimmer in his gaze.  “Thing is, I still don’t want to,” he says coolly, “so I’m thinking maybe I made the right choice after all.”

Fiona looks away, focuses her eyes on something other than her brother.  For such a tall kid, he seems wilted and small.  “Maybe,” she says lowly as she stands, “but I wonder how long you two will actually be able to stay away from each other.”  She looks back at Ian and offers him a small smile before quietly unpacking the groceries from their bags.

Ian remains at the kitchen table and moves his glass of water back in front of the pills.  He still doesn’t take them. 

He thinks of Mickey lying somewhere in the street, broken-hearted and cold. 

-

“The fuck happened to you!?” Iggy yells at Mickey as he comes limping through the living room.  There’s a rip in his jeans, blood stains in the denim.  He’s breathing heavily.

Iggy’s talking to the four walls – Mickey ignores him, grabs the bottle of vodka he’s been nursing off of the table and brings it to his lips.  He tips his head back – all the way back – lets the alcohol burn its way down into his stomach.  After a few large gulps he slams the bottle on the table.  Any harder, and the glass would have shattered.  He shoots Iggy a pointed glare.

“Ian fucking happened,” he says harshly, before turning around to make his way to his room.  He slams the door behind him hard, so hard the Milkovich walls of steel quake.

***

Superman was never an idol superhero of his.  Growing up, he found his red cape dumb, wanted to wrap it around his broad neck.  He’d rather see him wear it as a scarf instead, tie his strength around his neck because flying never got anyone anywhere in real life.  Really, he was just interested in suffocating the guy.  If only he could fly as a kid, he would’ve been able to escape the wrath of North Wallace.  Instead, all he got was _Forest Gump_ on rewind.  _Dear God, make me a bird, so I can fly far.  Far far away from here…_

But as he watches Liam grin with excitement while Fiona sticks the man of steel on the refrigerator, Ian finds himself wanting more than ever to be just like him – at least this small version.  His smile is bright, his cape is stretched out behind him as he confidently points both arms straight up as if he’s headed to the moon.  _Up, up and away._ He knows where he’s going, even if he ends up nowhere at all.  Yeah, Ian wants to be just like him.  At least he’ll stick to something, point his arms towards _anything._

_Magnetic Superman._

Suddenly he feels strong.  _It’s been a week since the breakup_.  He walks up to the refrigerator, admiring the magnet decorated in red and blue.  There’s already a piece of paper being held up by it.  Liam points upward to show off his new trinket, his smile wide and proud.  Ian grins because Liam grins.  Ian’s proud because Liam’s proud.  He gets close enough where he can see Superman in detail, his eyes subsequently falling to the paper behind it.  He reads the writing and feels his stomach sink to his knees.

_Ian’s appointment with the Psychiatrist, 3pm._

His eyes burn.  He never agreed to this, only spoke with Fiona briefly about maybe going.  Fucking _maybe_.  Suddenly Superman looks stupid and Ian finds himself backing away angrily.  What good were magnets anyway?  Seems like they’re only good for reminding you that you’re _not okay_.  That if you take the El after 2:30 you’ll be ten minutes late for a chance at a normal life.  So maybe he doesn’t understand how magnets truly work.

Then again, Ian Gallagher tells himself he isn’t ferromagnetic – he isn’t made of metal.  But after running away from who he loves for the second time, he’ll soon realize the flesh can be just like it. 

He grabs his jacket and storms out the front door to go for a walk, maybe even fly to the moon, or nowhere at all – just like magnetic Superman.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

***

“He’s calling again.”

 _It’s been two weeks since the breakup._ Ian barely grunts and shrugs his shoulders noncommittally at his younger sister’s comment.  He flits his tired eyes towards _‘Mickey’_ flashing on the screen.  The letters seem extra big and cartoonish.  He knows Debbie sees all of his missed calls, is probably sick of hearing his stupid phone ring.  It’s a symphony of a broken heart on the other end of the line, banging off of the walls and seeming to echo inside the entire house.  He could put it on vibrate, but there’s something about the obnoxious chiming that keeps everything real.  It stops after five rings. 

Debbie blinks at her brother incredulously across the kitchen counter while silence fills their cups before the coffee.  Ian knows she’s expecting him to say something, but he bites down on his tongue instead.  Resigning to his refusal to speak, Debbie grabs the pot of coffee and pours them both a cup.  She slowly slides Ian’s mug back to him, takes the opportunity to slide in another comment simultaneously.  “Normally you shouldn’t have caffeine, but since you’re off your meds and all.”

Her tone is disapproving.  She knows saying shit like this gets under Ian’s skin, but it’s far from a tactical error, because the words press deep and makes him pop.  “Jesus Debs you too?  You gonna try and make me take them?”

“No one can make you take anything Ian,” Debbie counters quickly, “so stop using those who love you as an excuse as to why you’re not.”

Ian’s eyes widen for a second, before shrinking back to the same tiredness, the same half-empty stare.  It sucks to hear the truth but deep down he knows she’s right.  “I’m not blaming anyone,” he finally responds under his breath.  She doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t expect her to.  He won’t try to plead his case.  The shadow of his mother is heavy enough and suffocating to live in.

Debbie takes a few sips of her coffee then walks around the counter and picks up her bag pack in the chair next to her brother.  Just as she swings it over her shoulder, Ian’s phone begins to ring again – starts to _scream_.  “Tell your boyfriend – I’m sorry, _ex-boyfriend_ that,” Debbie responds as she casts her eyes down to his phone.  “Answer it.  It won’t hurt to talk to him.”

_It probably won’t because when everything hurts, all that’s left is numb._

“And how long do you think you can actually stay away from him?” she asks rhetorically before kissing him on the cheek.  She smiles knowingly before going out the back door to head to school.  Ian looks down at his ringing phone, traces his eyes over Mickey’s name and quickly thinks of the empty space in his bed.  Debbie’s right, he should answer.  He picks it up, studies the screen and hovers his thumb over the glowing answer button.  All he has to do is slide it over the glass.

But he doesn’t.  The ringing stops and suddenly silence in the loudest thing in the house.

-

A loud smash echoes behind his closed door, followed by a series of crashes and bangs.  Loud, incessant swearing follows suit, then another crash and what sounds like a mini explosion.  Iggy furrows his brows tightly, crushes the tip of his spliff in the ashtray and jumps up off of the couch to make his way to his brother’s room.  This shit better be a crisis because this little fucker is disturbing his very good morning high. 

“Good thing Svetlana ain’t here cuz she would have your balls for waking Yev – “ Iggy cuts himself off after he swings open Mickey’s door and finds him in the middle of chaos.  There’s shit thrown everywhere, his dresser is overturned and his phone lay smashed on the floor at his feet.  Iggy narrows his eyes at his brother who’s slumped at the foot of his bed breathing heavily with his head in his hands.  There’s what appears to be a torn picture next to him.  “Mickey, what the fuck?” Iggy says shocked.  “It looks like a fucking tornado came in and – “

“Get the fuck out!” Mickey screams as he picks up the first thing he can get his hands on and chucks it at Iggy’s head.  It’s his smashed phone that goes sailing, but misses just as Iggy barely ducks out of the way.

“Jesus!  Alright!” Iggy responds as he throws up a shielding arm and backs out.  He starts to close the door, but swings it back open.  “Just go over there and fucking see him!” he shouts at Mickey before quickly slamming it shut.  There’s a loud thud of a heavy object hitting the door on the other side while his hand is still on the knob.  There’s no need to play _guess who_ to know why Mickey’s having a meltdown.  “Yo, throw shit all you want!” Iggy shouts through the wood, “but you two shitheads always come back together, like dumb fucking magnets!” 

This time, Iggy hears a glass hit the door and shatter, his hand still firmly gripping the doorknob.

***

He convinces himself in his tiny bed that he’s done the right thing.  It’s the hundredth time he’s done so – the hundredth time he’s epically failed.  It’s beginning to look good on him, failure, so he wears it like a badge.

It’s been four weeks and Mickey no longer calls.  No going back now.  Done is done is _done_.  There’s a dirty fist pressing into his chest right over the spot where the heart beats, the knuckles blemished and reminiscent – but there’s no one there with him.  Except for several of his moods he tries his best to lay on top of, he’s very much alone, figures he deserves it.  Ian glances at his name lined up neatly in a row on his windowsill, a strip of prescription after prescription, all untaken, still – mocking in the bottles.  How many blankets will he sleep under tonight?

Mickey will see soon enough that this was for his own good.

Ian closes his eyes, slowly drifts into a restless sleep and thinks if he, himself ever will.

-

He doesn’t need the dark sky and the shitty street lights to tell him its night.  Truth be told, the lights went out weeks ago when he found himself alone and _running_.  How did he even end up here again?  This is not how this was supposed to happen.  So he keeps on running, every day, not really knowing where he’s going, yet realizing in the back of his mind exactly where he’ll end up eventually. 

Old habits die hard.

He walks up to the closed gate for the hundredth time, toes at the cracks in the concrete with his boot nervously as he contemplates finally swinging it open with abandon and taking on those steps.  _Those fucking steps._ There’s something about them now, something resentful in the way the wood seems to stick out from the rest of the Gallagher house, weathered and unpainted, tragedy in the splinters.  Seeing himself in them is inevitable.  They’ve both been stepped on.  He grunts and sways as his focus blurs, almost loses his balance as he feels the whiskey in his veins and the oxy swell in his spine as it creeps slowly up his back. 

Things are always taken from him.  This, at least he feels in his untouched skin.

There’s no red hair and a crooked smile when he gets home anymore, not even the scent of mint shampoo in his pillowcase to amuse him.  The smell of freckled skin with that hint of sweet sweat is even gone despite him refusing to wash his sheets since _he_ left.  Everything is slipping through his fingers, things that were once solid now like water in shaky hands or torn pieces of a photo.  He can’t stop trembling.  So he grabs onto the first thing that will stick since Ian couldn’t.

 _Opiates and alcohol._   Fuck dying.  He’s already dead.

“Why the fuck couldn’t we _stick_?” he mumbles to himself.

Mickey closes his eyes, contemplates turning around again, but thinks about what he went through to even come back to this wretched spot – what he goes through on the daily.  The space laughs at him.  He takes his dirty fingertips, presses the gash in his thigh through his jeans as a reminder.  It’s just another battle scar to add to his many, all with Ian’s name scribbled over them.  Running from Sammi should be a fucking sport.  Hell, running from any Gallagher.  His jeans had gotten caught on a rusted fence he jumped by an abandoned lot, the metal catching his flesh.  He barely winced at the pain as he continued to run, Sammi finally gone and Ian even further.

But there would always be _this_ scar.  Just like the others.

If only that fence would’ve caught more than his clothing and skin – his heart perhaps, to be pierced, paraded and pulsating in the wind.  It would’ve felt no different than the knife Ian plunged deep with his own words, would’ve been merely another casualty along the way.  Mickey’s keeping score now.  The relationship he thought he had.  _One point._   His feelings.  _Two points._   The person he thought he knew.  _Ad infinitum._  

He’s currently winning a losing game.

-

Ian jolts out of his sleep, sits up in his bed and wipes the sweat off of his forehead with the back of his clammy hand.  He stares down at his chest and sees his heart beating through his tank top, grabs the object next to him under his cover and runs his fingers over the smooth surface.  Somehow it calms him from his nightmare.  Things are always clearer after the fact.  Hindsight is 20/20.  Dreaming about that shit is 20/10 – you can see at twenty feet what being awake allows you to see at only ten.  It’s the true definition of better than average vision.  _It’s fucking guilt._

There’s a slight pull in the air in his room.  He doesn’t know why, but he feels eyes on him.  Something’s watching, be it an actual person or his own shadow on the wall shredded by the scattered light coming through his curtain. 

Suddenly he thinks of Mickey, wonders why he hasn’t called him in weeks.  Sure, he’s not obligated to even blink at the sound of his name and owes him nothing – his very words, _you don’t owe me anything,_ but Ian admits to himself there was something about hearing his phone ring and seeing Mickey’s name that made him still feel planted on the ground.  Now, he’s just floating, his feet hovering far enough above the surface to make him feel disconnected, yet close enough to allow him to realize he’s still _lonely_.

As he continues to touch the object underneath his covers, he looks at a sleeping Liam, thinks of him crying a few days ago in the kitchen.  Ian brings out the object, holds it up in the dark and places it on the windowsill next to his pill bottles.  The shitty streetlight cast through the calico falls over it, illuminating the red and blue.  He studies the Superman magnet and wonders why he really took it days ago.

Truth is, Ian wanted to fly – somewhere, anywhere – some way, somehow.  The magnet was the closest he could get.  When Liam discovered that it was gone, he cried.  It was Ian’s plan to quietly return it the next day, but he’d fallen asleep with it that night, and when he woke up with it clutched in his hand, he felt an odd sense of comfort.

He still plans to stick it back on the fridge.

Ian takes a deep breath, holds it in.  His lungs feel far too empty.  He should’ve never quit smoking the first time – starting back up makes you twice the addict.  He could say the same about Mickey.  He stands out of his bed, grabs the pack of Marlboro Reds off of his dresser and flips on the light.  As he lights his cigarette, there’s a hope in the flame, one he inhales quickly before it fades.  He makes his way over to his window and opens it.

He stares out into the night, eyes staring back at him.

-

Mickey’s eyes fall to the steps again, so used, yet neglected.  It seems not even dodging bullets can give him the strength to just run up the damn treads and bang on the door.  It seems not even his own fear and doubts can keep him away.  But this was Iggy’s fucking idea.  _It was._   Mickey laughs erratically, glances at the light glowing through Ian’s bedroom window.  He’s awake and Mickey admits to himself he _needs_ him.

He narrows his eyes on his window, and suddenly he feels like a jaded Romeo.  He curses Ian under his breath.  “Stupid, fucking idiot,” Mickey says, his words broken by his uncertainty.  It has shit to do with the pills he took.  It has shit to do with the whiskey he keeps in his closet underneath his filthy clothes because he’s too proud to let Svetlana and his brothers see that he’s becoming dependent on it.  Mickey Milkovich used to not give a fuck.

 

_“What are you doing?” Svetlana asked curiously as she caught Mickey hastily covering up something with socks, boxers and t-shirts.  Two were Ian’s green t-shirts.  She was back in the house now and seemed to catch every fucking thing._

_Mickey shuffled backwards out of his closet, nearly tripping over Ian’s memory and his own feet.  He stared at Svetlana with drunken eyes.  “Mindin’ mah business,” he slurred._

_“You’re sloppy when drunk,” she said as she wiped Yevgeny’s mouth with his bib, “and a terrible liar.”  She shot Mickey that classic Svetlana stare, instantly seeing through the alcohol clogging his pores.  “You trying to drink orange boy away?”_

_“Fuck you, you sssound like his sssister,” Mickey bit just as he swayed again, Debbie just as reprimanding in his memory.  He picked at his skin with his fingernails as realization began to sink in.  If only he could just scratch it out.  He wasn’t trying to drink Ian away._

_He was trying to drink himself away._

He’s angry, and hurt, and still _in love_.  He has to talk to him.  It’s late, but he doesn’t give a shit.

He would’ve called before coming, had he not thrown his phone against his bedroom wall weeks back in a fit full of rage after dialing Ian without answer for the umpteenth time.  Now he’s phoneless and empty, except for the opiates and alcohol coursing through his veins creating a false sense of euphoria and courage.  _Courage._   In all honesty, Mickey’s fucking scared.  A person can only be rejected so many times before they begin to hate the world and the people capable of crushing hearts in it.  So that’s almost every soul, Ian’s included.

A silhouette catches his eye in the window.  He doesn’t need to guess who it is, because even with his eyes closed Mickey knows Ian’s every feature – every dip and curve, line and detail of his frame.  The shadow gets closer to the window, and opens it.  A single, gray tendril of smoke escapes through the curtain, which blows slightly in the night breeze, revealing Ian.  There’s a silence in his face as he inhales the smoke from the cigarette.  Suddenly the false courage Mickey is feeling converts into resentment, and he turns to walk away before Ian can see him.  _Fuck this shit._

He doesn’t walk fast enough.

“Mickey?” Ian calls from his window, “What are you doing down there?”  _Fuck if he knows._

Mickey stops, contemplates turning around to acknowledge that he heard, but there’s metal covering his bones.  He’s stuck from the sound of Ian’s voice.  Stuck from the deep rooted _‘fuck you’_ in his gut that he wants to spit out so badly.  Stuck from the even deeper _‘I still love you’_ he has to swallow every second just to keep from saying it.  So he swallows his tongue instead as his pride pulls him forward and his love for Ian pulls him backward.  _Pulls_.  Unable to move, he just stands there, barely breathing.  Mickey attempts to take a step once again, only to be crushed by his own effort. 

“Wait, don’t go anywhere” Ian yells out from the window, “I’m coming down.”

If only Ian knew that he can’t move, not even if he wanted to. 

You see, magnets are funny like that.

***

There are hands gripped firmly on his hips, a wet mouth far below his waistline.  Everything else before this is a blur.

Mickey lifts his head off of the cement wall, cracks open his closed eyes and looks down.  He takes note of the red marks blooming in his skin beneath long fingers gripping too tight and the red hair between his thighs.  There’s something desperate in the grip.  _What the fuck is happening?_   Before this point, there are just bits and pieces in his mind – walking down the street – half conversations with awkward pauses – confusing stares – Ian’s arm brushing against his as they traveled through the Southside.  He was so fucking high, and thinking back Mickey’s not sure if it was the oxy or Ian’s scent that did it. 

Mickey almost turned around to leave twice, but each time he looked up into Ian’s eyes, shit got funny again.

Somehow, they ended up at the abandoned building they used to hang out at, where they would spray paint profanities onto the cement walls to pass the time they didn’t have.  Ian talked about staring at glasses of water and pills as they walked.  Mickey followed, gave half answers to his half questions in their half conversations.  Somehow they ended up on the roof, tracing their fingers over the bullet holes of yesterday’s past.  Mickey could still hear his gun being fired, hear Ian screaming for him to look at him.

Somehow Ian ended up in tears, as he looked Mickey in the eyes and said, _“You stopped calling.”_

Mickey could have told him to go fuck himself, because how does a person who refuses to answer their calls complain about them stopping?  He never realized how narcissistic Ian was until now.  He would have told him to go to hell, because he threw his phone at the wall where he still saw his face, only to break it.  And his face is _still_ there.  He should have said, _“You broke up with me,”_ but the coulda-woulda-shoulda’s got crushed between their mouths as he smashed his lips onto Ian’s.

Before he realized what he was doing, their tongues were already tangled. 

Ian’s lips are red and swollen now as he seems to inhale Mickey.  There’s a rhythm in the way he bobs his head up and down, a rhythm Mickey almost forgot.  He tangles his hand into Ian’s too long hair, tries to pull him off, but untangles his fingers when he feels Ian flit his tongue across the tip of his head.  Mickey’s eyes roll back, and the hand he used to pull Ian’s hair ends up in a fist between his teeth as he bites down to keep from moaning.  There can be no sounds out of his mouth – noise means he’s vulnerable, says he misses him.  So he bites down eve harder when Ian twists his wrist causing a wave to travel through his body.

It shouldn’t have gone beyond kissing, but Ian’s arbitrary _‘I love you too’_ that slipped out of his mouth had Mickey’s zipper undone before he could realize the declaration was an amendment – written over the _‘What does that even mean?’_ Mickey erases with his whiskey each day.  Too little too late turned into too much too soon, and the overwhelming feeling Mickey got in his belly, Ian silently promised to suck out of him when he dropped to his knees and swallowed him whole.

He keeps his promise, and Mickey comes into his mouth, hard.

Ian’s swollen in his pants as he stands.  He doesn’t ask for Mickey to return the favor.  Mickey doesn’t offer.  There’s a defeated breath that escapes his mouth as Ian’s eyes dart to the rooftop floor in shame.  “This shouldn’t have happened,” Mickey says lowly as he zips his jeans.

“Guess not,” Ian responds.  They stare at each other in silence for two small eternities, before Mickey breaks the silence.

“I should go,” he says quickly before pushing himself off of the wall and making his way towards the steps.  But he doesn’t get far.

Ian grabs his wrist on instinct, then drops it awkwardly when he realizes what he’s doing.  Mickey raises his brows which slowly come together in a slight frown.  “Can you just…” Ian trails off.  He rubs both of his hands down his face, leans against the wall.  He focuses his eyes straight ahead.  “I just wanna be near you for a little while,” Ian finally admits. 

Mickey knows he’s just asked him to stay.  Despite knowing he should say no, stop this thing dead in its tracks and leave – he does just the opposite.  Without saying a word, Mickey stands next to Ian and looks out into the night with him.  They both slide to the cement floor slowly after a few moments, their bodies seemingly in tune.  They’ve always been drawn to each other, their rhythms in sync.

They sit silently with their elbows touching, speaking of nothing at all, but thinking about everything

-

Sunlight pierces through his eyelids, causing them to flutter open.  He’s still half asleep, but he can feel the cold cement floor coming through what feels like a sleeping bag underneath him.  Ian rubs his eyes with the pads of his fingers, grips the fabric beneath him.  It’s a jacket subbing as a blanket.  Mickey’s jacket.  He can tell by the way it smells.  He must’ve fallen asleep.

He sits up and darts his eyes around the vicinity and spots Mickey at the edge of the roof with his arms propped up on the ledge as he looks out at nothing in particular.  He’s smoking a cigarette, the sunlight seeming to cast a glow around his black hair.  Ian feels a thump in his chest as he inhales, uncertain if it’s just him or the sight of the guy he still loves.  He almost doesn’t know what to do.  The simplest option for the current moment is to get up and walk over to him.

Ian stands and slowly makes his way over to Mickey.  He’s still propped up on the edge of the roof, the burning cigarette now gripped between his index and middle finger.  He glances at Ian out of his periphery but doesn’t turn to face him, brings the nicotine to his lips and inhales deeply.  Ian stands quietly in the spot next to Mickey, leans against the ledge and looks out into the empty Southside morning.  It’s quiet, except for a few birds chirping in the distance and the uncertainty between the two of them.  Down below, stories down, things seem so small, so insignificant. 

“How long have I been asleep?” Ian asks Mickey, finally breaking the silence. 

“About five hours,” Mickey responds, still looking out at the other abandoned buildings.  “It’s almost 7am.”

“You sleep too?”

Mickey takes another drag off of the cigarette before throwing it down below to the small, insignificant things.  He finally turns and meets Ian’s gaze.  “A few hours,” he responds as he turns and leans his back against the brick. 

Ian turns his eyes to look back at the other buildings.  He struggles with finding words for a few moments.  “Thanks for letting me sleep on your jacket,” he finally says.

Mickey shrugs as he places his hands in his pants pockets.  “It was nothing,” he offers, “you passed out after like ten minutes.  I couldn’t let you sleep on the cold cement floor.” 

“You could have.  So thanks anyway.”

There’s awkward silence that falls between the two of them after that.  Ian guesses this is life with someone after a breakup – fumbling through conversation that used to be effortless, getting lost in trivial details and infinite pauses.  Things with Mickey were never easy, but they were never like _this_.  He’d rather the difficulties and the turbulence.  At least he could pinpoint them, knew what they felt like.  Ian opens his mouth to speak, but slams it shut when he realizes he doesn’t know what to say.

“I broke my phone,” Mickey says out of the blue, “threw it against my wall after calling you and getting your voicemail again.”  Ian looks at Mickey, wonders why he’s telling him this.  He sees Mickey smile, but it isn’t a happy smile, rather it’s one that stems from someone wondering why’re they’re currently where they are.  “That’s why I stopped calling.”

Ian turns around so that he’s facing in the same direction as Mickey.  Without realizing, he finds them closer, they’re elbows touching lightly.  “Look, I had no right to ask you why – “

“I also tore up your picture,” Mickey cuts him off.  He rubs his thumb across his bottom lip, before finally turning to look Ian in the eye.  “But I taped that shit back together afterwards,” he confesses.  “Even as a photo I love you too much to see you in pieces.”

Ian feels that thump in his chest again, this time knowing it’s Mickey who’s caused it.  There’s a heaviness from the guilt he feels on his shoulders.  “I never meant to hurt you ya know,” Ian offers. 

“I know,’ Mickey responds. 

They become silent again, seeming to rest comfortably in the quiet pockets where the noise of uncertainty can never seem to get to.  Mickey takes out his pack of cigarettes, offers Ian one before taking one for himself.  He lights them both up, they turn to face out at the morning again.  As they smoke, they steal glances, the tension slowly diminishing.

“Don’t give up on me yet,” Ian says out of the blue.  He’s not asking for them to get back together, he’s not asking for some grand gesture or reunion.

Mickey lets out a slight laugh trimmed in something hopeful.  It’s a sound Ian misses, craves.  “Never have, never will,” he responds.  “I can’t seem to even stay the fuck away from you.”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes out, “that seems to be a recurring theme for the both of us.”

“We’re dumb fucking magnets,” Mickey says, Iggy’s voice still loud and clear in his head.

Ian laughs through a mouthful of smoke – his first smile since they’d gotten together last night.  “No,” Ian shakes his head, “we’re more like Superman.”

Mickey snorts, not even attempting to ask Ian what he means.  “We should get going now,” he starts as he heads back towards the inner wall, Ian on his heels.  He picks up his jacket off of the floor and throws it on.  He raises a brow to the ceiling, studies Ian’s face for a few moments.  “I’ll walk you home,” he offers.  Ian doesn’t turn him down.

-

They’re at the Gallagher steps, and this time around they don’t seem so daunting to Mickey.  Ian walks up them, opens the front door and turns around before making his way in.  “See ya Mick,” he says as he half waves his hand like an awkward teenager coming home from their first date. 

“Yeah, see ya.”  Mickey begins to walk away from the house, exits the front gate and steps onto the sidewalk.  He turns around, Ian still watching him from the doorway.  “And when I get my new phone in the next few days, make sure you answer yours,” he exclaims before turning around and heading down the street.

Ian smiles, tries to make sense of last night and this morning.  He makes his way to his room, free falls into his bed, his hand immediately finding its way to the object peeping out from beneath the covers.  He picks it up and runs his thumb over magnetic Superman’s face, thinks of Mickey.  There’s still the complications with his meds, the sudden breakup and anger that’s probably stained into the both of them.  It’ll certainly take time, but he knows he’ll answer his phone when an unknown number calls.

At least now he’s sticking to something, and pointing his arms towards _someone_.

**Author's Note:**

> My 3-year-old cousin has this Superman magnet that my Aunt (his grandmother) bought him, and he's so proud of it. When he goes to get his juice box out of the fridge, he points at it, smiles and says, "Superman!" It's the cutest thing. One day I was over there, I thought about that magnet, then thought about Ian and Mickey. It fits - they're magnets and always come back to each other. So I just had to figure out a way to incorporate that superman magnet with these two, and this is what I wrote. It definitely got me back into the groove, and I hope to have my WIPs updated pretty soon! Thanks for reading, and I hope you all enjoyed this random fic I threw together. I wrote this to "Technicolour Beat" by Oh Wonder and "Station" by Lapsley. The songs just seemed to fit my mood while writing.
> 
> Come talk to me at penprowess.tumblr.com and theartsyafrodite.tumblr.com. :)))


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